Rain Wilds Chronicles (190 page)

Reyn spoke out in her defense. “She has always had those marks. Birthmarks when first I glimpsed them, just dusky smudges, now made silver by her changes. That is all they are. We keep nothing from you, great dragon. Whatever we have is yours, if you will just save our child. Take my life, eat me now if you wish, but let my son know a moment of peace and calm!” And then the man Malta loved more than life fell to his knees before the dragon and offered the golden dragon his bent neck.

“Oh, please,” she moaned, knowing how ravenous the dragon was. But Mercor did not move to strike. If anything, his stillness became that of stone. All around her the gathered keepers kept silent. Sylve kept her hand on her dragon's shoulder, and Alise stood with both her hands clasped over her mouth as if to seal in a scream of terror.

Then the dragon slowly swung his head away. “You speak those words as if you believed them true. You know nothing useful, I fear. Tintaglia's Elderlings, I cannot help your babe. But if you have any loyalty to dragonkind . . .” He lifted his head high and suddenly trumpeted the words loud, issuing his command to every keeper there, “Find the Silver well for us! She is proof that one still exists somewhere! In her lifetime, someone has touched Silver and shared that touch with her. If you care for us at all, make this your quest now. For until it is found, no Elderling magic can be done, no dragon can prosper! Find the Silver well for us.”

“If we find this Silver well for you, will you then save my baby?” Malta tried recklessly for a bargain. She knew nothing of Silver. Offering it was her last hope.

The dragon looked at her a final time. “I have told you. Only Tintaglia can save your child. Reach for her, Elderling. Tell your dragon of your plight and perhaps she will come to aid you.” He turned away, and Sylve lifted her hand and stepped out of his way. He did not look at her as he added, “But do not have great hopes. Tintaglia did not come to us when we needed her. If she would not come for dragons, I doubt she will come for an Elderling.”

Malta could not breathe. Did the dragon know he had just condemned her child to death? Did he understand what it meant to them? He looked at her, and his slender keeper shook her head slowly. A sense of Mercor's sympathy reached Malta, but it was the same sort of sympathy she would have extended to a child with a wilted flower. The dragon did not grasp her agony.

“But cannot one of you—” Reyn began, but Malta was already turning away from them all.

“Let's just go,” she said quietly. “If this must be, let us just go somewhere private and be with him while we can.” She walked away, not so much from Reyn as from the gathered keepers and the dragons. Some things were too hard to bear, and the scrutiny of outsiders only made them worse. She began to tremble as she walked, a shuddering she could not control. Reyn was suddenly at her side, putting his arm around both of them and guiding her staggering steps. Behind her, the muttering of voices rose, but she did not look back. She and Reyn could do nothing for Ephron except be with him as his little life ended. So that was what they would do.

“G
et up here. Now.” The Chalcedean barked the order as if it had been Hest's idea to stay belowdecks after the sun was up.

He had awakened from his chill and cramped sleep as soon as the locker was opened. Even so, it was hard to move quickly. Hest was still blinking at the light as he emerged onto the deck. Early morning, he estimated, and for a blessing, it was not raining at the moment. He looked about hastily, trying to gauge the situation quickly. The boat was moving slowly upriver, the rowers steady at their oars. The other impervious boat was following them. He stared at the other craft for a moment, wondering if they followed under duress or if they were allied now.

The Chalcedean had no patience with his curiosity. “Not there!” He cuffed Hest, then pointed ahead of them and Hest's jaw dropped at what he saw. Ahead of them was a low spit of grassy mud projecting into the river. Amid the rushes, the dragon was curled like a huge blue cat, asleep and glittering in the wan afternoon light. The Chalcedean spoke in a low voice. “We are going to kill it. But we need to know everything you know about dragons. Does it have a vulnerable spot? If it awakens before we manage a quick kill, how will it respond to our attack?”

Hest shook his head. “I don't know. I've never tried to kill a dragon! Look at the size of that animal. You'd have to be mad to attack it!” The assassin gave him a dangerous look and Hest reconsidered his tack. What did he know? Only what he had heard. He cleared his throat and spoke more calmly. “When the Chalcedeans invaded Bingtown, a dragon helped us fight them off. A blue one, like that one but much smaller. She was able to spit acid, sometimes as a mist that rained down on ranks of men and sometimes in a spray aimed at one man. She also used her wings and her tail to lash at the ships and the warriors. She had clawed feet, too. But what I am telling you is what I was told. I never actually saw her fighting. I wasn't in that part of the city.” He hadn't been in Bingtown at all for those weeks, in truth, but had fled with his mother to their country house. The marauders had never penetrated that far inland.

“Useless!” The Chalcedean dismissed him, turning away to speak to another of his party. They conversed in Chalcedean, and they were either unaware that Hest was a fluent speaker of that tongue or did not care if he overheard them.

“We will put in here, downriver of it, and approach on foot. The creature is far larger than expected from what our spies have told us of the Rain Wild dragons. We have two archers, and they must go first. Aim for an eye and perhaps we will kill it as it sleeps. If it awakes, then send in everyone else with pikes.”

The other man shook his head. “Lord Dargen, it is too dangerous. When we captured the other vessel as you commanded, we lost men we could not afford to lose. We are already spread too thin manning both vessels. If you take most of our men off both ships to attack the dragon and the attack fails, there will not be enough of us left to man one ship. We will all die here.”

The assassin—Lord Dargen—stared at his companion as if he were stupid. “This is why we came. To kill a dragon, to butcher it, and to return to Chalced as swiftly as we can.” He shook his head, and then smiled. “We may all die here, or we may all die somewhere else, or all our families may die while we are here thinking of ways to save our own lives. It is done. We are marching toward death as soon as we are born. The only hope a man has is that his family line will remain, that his sons will go forward to father more sons, and that his name will be remembered by them. If I do not soon bring to the Duke's feet that which he desires, all futures will be lost to me. So I risk my life today in the hopes that my memory will go on forever if I succeed. Put in to shore. I myself will lead the men.” He jerked his head at Hest. “Put my servant back in his den. He is useless, and I do not want him underfoot.”

The man seized Hest by the arm and jostled him along. As he was shoved unceremoniously and without benefit of ladder belowdecks, Hest knew that he was receiving the treatment the man longed to inflict on Lord Dargen himself.

“Lord Dargen,” he muttered as he stood up. “Now I have his name! A thread I can follow to deliver vengeance to his door.” He spoke the words aloud, but in the cold wooden space they sounded as hollow as a child's threats against the father who has sent him to his room. He folded himself into the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees and tried not to think what would become of him if the dragon attacked the ship. He'd be helpless, trapped like a rat in the bilge as the ship went down. Cold water. He never imagined he'd die drowning in cold water.

T
intaglia lifted her head and unlidded her eyes. Outrage that anyone dared approach her while she was sleeping flooded her. Humans, clustering close, weapons raised! She surged to her feet, tail lashing, and roared at the sudden pain that swept her as her injury opened and fresh fluid ran down her side.

“Leave me!” she demanded, and as her command washed against the men facing her, the first barrage of arrows struck. She was in motion, but three still struck her face. They rattled off her, one striking her ridged brow, and the two others hitting just below her eye. Plainly her eye had been the target, and in that instant she realized fully that they intended to kill her. She turned her shoulder and flank to them, showing them only the most heavily scaled parts of her body. At the same time, she slashed her tail and men tumbled, either victims of her blow or of their own frantic efforts to avoid it. She became aware of the other men moving up on her: they were trying to surround her!

One man ran forward, a pike in his hands. His face was set in a rictus of fear and determination. One of her ancestors had known such a charge, and so she did not rear back onto her hind legs and expose her softer belly. Her wings she kept clapped tight to her sides lest they see her swollen wound and know her vulnerability. Instead, she threw her head back on her long neck and then snapped it forward, opening her mouth to hiss out a cloud of venom.

But nothing emerged from her wide open jaws. Her poison sacs were empty, victim to her long illness. The warriors cowered and one man screamed as the mist of saliva engulfed them. When, a few instants later, they realized they were unhurt, they whooped triumphantly and surged at her in a wild charge.

She willed herself to spin tightly, to meet their attack with a savage lash of her tail. Instead, she moved as ponderously as a wounded buffalo, limping as she slowly wheeled away from them. They were on her, jabbing at her with their spears and shrieking. All she could sense from their thoughts was fear and triumph and bloodlust, just as if she were battling jackals for the rights to a kill. She swept her tail, knocking some of them down while others leaped back and jeered at her.

“You will pay!” she roared at them, and one or two of their minds registered astonishment that an animal could speak. But the others were deaf to her words as so many humans were. They came at her again, thudding their useless spears against her heavy scaling. She turned toward them again, thinking of charging at them and crushing as many as she could with her jaws. But a spear flew, striking dangerously close to her eye, and she knew a sudden jolt of fear. These humans
could
kill her. They were not shepherds trying to drive her away from their flock, or hunters trying to defend their prey from her. They had come here to kill her.

She roared again, and there was a small satisfaction in seeing some of them hastily retreat. But others set their spears at the ready and ran toward her.

Tintaglia had no choice. She staggered toward them, stiffly and then in a lumbering charge, whipping her head from side to side, sending one man flying into the rushes and flattening another. She trod on her screaming victim as she passed, vindictively flexing her foot to be sure her nails scored him well.

Once past them, there was no escape save the river in front of her. She could not take flight; she needed time to limber her muscles and space to gather herself for that first painful vault into the air. She lashed her tail as she thundered past them and knew the satisfaction of feeling it connect and hearing a man scream. She did not look back. Better to appear that she was merely stalking off rather than fleeing.

The river awaited. She did not pause, but waded into it. Her enemies had nosed their vessels onto the bank downstream of her. So the humans had abandoned whatever quarrel they had with each other to unite in coming after her! She thought about destroying the ships in passing, but doubted her strength. Instead, she waded chest-deep in the water and started upriver. If they wanted to come after her, they'd have to reboard their vessels and man the oars. And if they did come up on her in the water, she thought she could possibly tip a boat over, or at least destroy a bank of oars.

She heard them shouting in frustration on the bank behind her. A spear splashed into the water beside her, and an arrow struck her back plates, lodged briefly between two of them and then fell. Stupid insects, daring to attack her! If she hadn't already been injured, there would have been nothing but smoking meat and shattered wood left of them and their ships!

She took another step and then the river water penetrated beneath her tightly clasped wings and she trumpeted in furious pain as the icy water found her wound with an acid kiss. Lurching on, she stumbled to her knees as the agony stabbed into her deeper than the spearhead had ever penetrated. The men on the shore screamed and whooped like monkeys as they watched her sink, her legs collapsing under her. She turned to look back at them, and shrieked a thought out on a wild blast of anger.
“You will all die! I give you a dragon's promise unending. All humans who attack dragons die!”

She sent that blast of anger winging wide, a desperate message to the distant dragons of Kelsingra. As the pain stabbed deeper into her and the cold water sucked the warmth from her flesh, she wondered if any heard it.

Day the 5th of the Plough Moon

Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders

From the Bird Keepers' Guild

 

Notice of Commendation

To be posted at all Guild Halls.

We are most pleased to announce this honor for Erek Dunwarrow, formerly a keeper of the birds in Bingtown and a master bird handler in good standing with the Guild. With this commendation, we recognize his significant contributions to the bird-breeding program at Bingtown, specifically the program for breeding birds for hardiness and swiftness.

A prize of sixty silvers is hereby awarded to him, and the further honor that birds of this particular lineage and coloration will now be formally named as Dunwarrows.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Silver

“T
here were some wonderful places up near the foothills. Smaller, but with sweeping views. Closer to hunting.” Carson added the last in a lower voice, knowing that hunting was not really one of the criteria that topped Sedric's list. He turned his eyes toward the hills and cliffs that backed the city and stared wistfully at their forested flanks.

“Closer to the wild lands. And farther from everything else,” Sedric pointed out with a wry smile.

“From the river, perhaps,” Carson countered. “But closer to everything else that we need right now to live independently. The hunting is good in the wooded hills; the dragons prefer to hunt the more open lands. And there are trees that may bear nuts or fruit. There will almost certainly be wild berries. The supplies that Captain Leftrin brought back from Cassarick won't last forever. We shouldn't be waiting until they run out before we worry about it. We should be stocking up on meat now, and scouting for other food sources.”

“I think I've heard this before,” Sedric said quietly, and Carson suddenly stopped in midbreath.

Then he laughed. “I know. I say the same things over and over. Usually to you, because I sometimes think you're the only one listening to me. The others act like children, thinking only of this day, this hour.”

“The others listen too. They're just enjoying a brief respite from daily hunts and work on the dock and every other task you urge them to undertake. They
are
young, Carson. And suddenly they have tea and jam and ship's biscuit again. Give them a few more days, and then I'll help you persuade some of them to go on an extended hunt again. But for now, can't we take a bit of time for ourselves? There's a house I want to show you. I think you'd like it.”

“A house?” Carson cocked his head and grinned. “Or a mansion?”

It was Sedric's turn to shrug ruefully. “Well, any house in Kelsingra is bound to seem a mansion to you. The Rain Wilds taught all of you to build small. But there's a street of houses I walked through a few days ago that intrigued me. And yes, they are large, even by Bingtown standards. But the one I went into had garden rooms in it, with transparent ceilings. So, although we might be a long way from the forest or foothills, we might be able to grow food right in our home.”

“If we had seed— Oh, very well. Let's look at it,” Carson conceded as Sedric shot him a long-suffering look. “I suppose you are right, and Leftrin did say that he put in an order for seed and chickens and so on. I just never imagined myself tending a garden. Or raising birds to eat.”

“I never imagined myself as an Elderling,” Sedric countered. “Carson, I think we are going to have a lot of years to explore many kinds of lives. We may farm, or raise cattle . . .”

“Or hunt.”

“Or hunt. Here. I think this is the right street. Kelsingra is so big and so spread out. Every time I think I've learned the city, I find another street to explore. Up this way I think. Or was it downhill from here?”

Carson chuckled tolerantly. “Did you notice if there was a view? If so, that would be uphill.” He halted and watched Sedric look up and down the street. He straightened the collar of his tunic. He had to admit that the clothing Sedric had chosen for him was comfortable. And warm. And weighed less than his leathers. He glanced down at himself, at his legs clad in a blue that reminded him of a parrot's wings. Elderling garb. At least the boots were brown. They were so light he felt as if he had nothing on, and yet his feet weren't cold and the stones underfoot didn't jab him. The wide brown belt he wore was of Elderling make, as was the sheathed knife he wore on it. The blade wasn't metal. He wasn't sure what it was, but it had been razor sharp from the moment he drew it from the sheath and it had stayed that way. It looked like blue, baked pottery to him more than anything else. Yet another Elderling mystery.

The more the keepers explored the city, the more artifacts they found. True, most of the houses and shops and buildings were empty, as if the people who had lived here had packed and left. But in some sections of the city, they were finding mansions and homes that held all sorts of Elderling items. Most items of wood had crumbled to dust, and scrolls and books had likewise decayed. But some of their fabrics had survived, especially of the sort that his tunic was made from, and it was not unusual anymore to see keepers ringed and necklaced as if they were wealthy Bingtown traders. It made Carson uneasy, though he had difficulty expressing why. Just as deciding which house to take over as their own made him uncomfortable. He and Sedric had been sharing chambers above the dragon baths, and even these had seemed a sybaritic luxury to him. He wasn't sure that he understood why Sedric wanted a large and elaborate home. But he deserved one, if that was what he wanted.

He glanced over at him and had to smile. Sedric looked so intent, as alert as any hunter, as he prowled down the street studying the grand houses that fronted it. The move to Kelsingra had agreed with him. Carson was a fastidious man about cleanliness, when such a state was possible, but Sedric elevated it to an art form. His hair gleamed gold, touched with the metallic sheen that Relpda had awarded to every part of him. To his eyes and his skin, his nails, and even his hair she had lent coppery warmth. Today, Sedric had chosen to echo that gleam with metallic blues in his tunic and hose, while his belt and boots were black. The Elderling garb wore so well, Carson thought no one needed more than one extra change of clothing. But Sedric had appropriated a rainbow for his wardrobe and took unutterable joy in varying his garb, sometimes several times a day. Even if Carson did not understand his partner's infatuation with clothing, it did not diminish his delight in watching him exercise it. Sedric felt Carson's scrutiny and turned to the hunter with a questioning look.

“What?” he demanded.

Carson's smile widened. “Just you. That's all.”

A blush suffused Sedric's face, rendering him both more boyish and yet more charming. And that he blushed because he was overwhelmed by Carson's compliment only magnified the effect for the hunter. He jostled Sedric with an elbow and then put an arm around him. “Which house?” he asked him genially, knowing that if, at that moment, Sedric declared he wished to live in all of them at once, he'd have done his best to make it possible.

“Wait!” Sedric said sharply. He shrugged out from under Carson's arm and strode briskly away. For a moment, Carson felt hurt; then he recognized the intensity of Sedric's stalking. An odd prickle of premonition ran up his own spine as he stared around.

This was a district of elaborate houses, and almost every intersection boasted a fountain or a statue or plaza of some sort. Any of the structures were palatial by Carson's standards, but Sedric was moving steadily downhill, ignoring their allure. He strode through a small square with a statue of a woman pouring water and turned deliberately into a street of humbler houses. The thoroughfares went from broad avenues fit for a parade of dragons to wide but winding streets, and the buildings changed to a more human scale as they moved along it. Odd. Carson had never imagined that such simple dwellings might attract his peacock lover. Sedric moved strangely, peering from side to side, not like a man who considers the houses he passes but as if trying to find something he'd lost. No. Like a man who had lost his way, Carson suddenly realized, and was looking for a landmark. He lifted his own eyes and scanned the area. Like all of Kelsingra, it was built of stone, and here a bluish-gray stone predominated. He noticed nothing noteworthy. Cautiously, he opened his awareness of the city and let the impressions of Elderlings long dead touch his thoughts.

He had always felt a bit squeamish about this aspect of being an Elderling. A private man himself, he felt strange wallowing in the personal memories of others. The other keepers seemed to take it in stride, and personally he did not blame those who chose to enjoy the sensual memories of another time. In such a small population, it was better for them to satisfy their needs that way than to jostle and fight for the available partners. And he knew there was valuable information to be gained in sharing memories from the stones, technical information on the workings of the city in addition to knowledge of the ways of dragons and the surrounding lands. He knew that Sedric enjoyed tapping the memory stones in the same way that he had enjoyed going to plays or listening to minstrels. The stones of the city were full of stories, some dramatic, some poignant. But no other part of the city had felt the way this one did. It was quiet. No memories stirred here, no brief waft of scent or echo of someone's laughter from a long-ago summer day. Here the city was mute, hoarding its secrets in silence. Sedric glanced back at him, bafflement on his face, and Carson sensed his partner had just shared the same realization.

“What are you looking for?” he called to Sedric, and his words bounced back to him from the silent stone.

“I'm not sure.” Sedric stared all around him like a man wakening from a dream. “The streets just suddenly seemed very familiar. As if I'd been here before, and often. For an important reason. But every time I try to remember that part of the memory, it fades out of reach. But in an odd way. The Elderling memories I've taken from stone usually stay with me clearly. But this is like fog . . .”

“In a purposeful way.” Carson finished the thought for him.

“Yes. As if something were being deliberately concealed.”

The buildings that they passed now were no longer homes or mansions but were designed to allow dragons to enter as freely as humans. They walked quietly past them, their softly shod feet whispering on the paving stones.

“It's older here,” Sedric said suddenly. “The way the streets are paved, the buildings . . . this is older than the part of the city where the dragon baths are, or that grand Hall of Records with the map tower.”

“I suspect this is where Kelsingra began.” Carson nodded to where worn steps went down into a building's entrance. “It seems to me it would take a lot of feet walking down stone steps before they were worn like that. And these buildings are actually lower than the street, if you look at it. As if the streets have been repaired and raised.” In reply to Sedric's startled glance, Carson looked aside. “I've never been there, but I've heard that Old Jamaillia is like that. One fellow who had been there told me that openings that used to be first-floor windows are doors now, the streets have been built up so much.”

Sedric nodded, a slow smile curving his lips. “I have been there, and you're right. Strange. I was looking right at it and not really seeing it.”

For a time, they walked in silence. The streets grew narrower and the buildings humbler, as if when people had first settled here, they had not known the full ambition of Elderlings. Carson found that Sedric had drawn closer to him. Carson linked arms with him and felt himself more alert than he usually was in this city. The din of memories simply didn't exist in this part of the city. Perhaps it had been built before the Elderlings had gained the magic of storing memories in stone. The scuff of their footsteps on the cobblestones seemed louder, the warmth of Sedric's skin under his fingers more intimate. All his senses were keener here. He felt more himself and wondered uneasily who he had been before.

“There!” Sedric said suddenly, and pointed.

“What is it?” Carson asked. Recognition tickled at the back of his mind, but he could not summon the memory.

“I don't know,” Sedric admitted. “I only know it's important.”

Carson shivered suddenly but not with a chill. Something else. Danger? Anticipation? He lifted his head and sniffed the air, wondering if the scent of a predator had triggered it. Nothing. But an almost sexual excitement infused him suddenly, and as it tingled through his body, he recognized it was not his own. Spit, never far from him in thought, knew something about this place. Or almost did. Somewhere, the little silver dragon had tipped his wings, ignoring the dozing deer below him. He was winging back to the city as fast as he could. Carson stared around him, trying to see what his dragon had glimpsed through his eyes.

“It” was an open plaza, not as wide or as grand as many in the newer part of the city. In the center of it was a tumble of rubble. The destruction looked both deliberate and recent—or at least much more recent than the other quake damage to the city. A length of black chain coiled like a dead snake. Timbers of green and gold and red had been rendered to kindling. They approached the collapsed structure slowly, and Sedric was the first to speak. “It's sticking out of a hole there. See the low wall around it, or what is left of it? It looks like a well, for drawing water, but much wider. But with a river so close by, why would they dig a well here?”

“It wasn't for water,” Carson said quietly. He listened to his own words as if someone else were speaking them, then he fell silent, chasing an elusive idea. At last he spoke a single word. “Silver,” he said aloud, echoing his dragon's thought, and then shook his head in denial. “It makes no sense.”